Ukraine: A story of survival and defeat

The first time I saw Lyudmilla, I didn’t notice her face. I noticed her produce.

It was winter in Ukraine and the 'babushka' was selling fresh herbs and salad greens at a market in Kyiv. These items were luxury in the middle of a sub-zero Ukrainian winter, so Lyudmilla had herself a new regular customer.

Over the winter I visited Lyudmilla every time I came to the market. When she saw me - the 'dyevushka' from 'Avstralia, nye Avstria' - her stout body came to life. She stood up and welcomed me with a smile that lit up her face. She asked me questions: about life in Australia, did my mother worry about me being so far away, and did I have a husband?

I soon noticed she wasn’t as old as I first thought. Her smooth skin and youthful smiled contrasted with the worn, flower-patterned kerchief covering her wiry hair, dyed a burnt orange to disguise the grey that years of hard work and life under communism had put there.

She started to sell me secret produce that she kept aside for her favourite customers. Watercress, witlof. A bounty in the dead of winter. If she didn’t have what I wanted, she’d send her silent, industrious husband to search for it.

She always had questions and I always answered. It took effort to understand her and answer her in Russian, and it never occurred to me to ask her questions in return.

One day I arrived at her table hoping for basil. I finally had the confidence to ask her a question, and started with the simple, 'Kak dela?' – How's things? Lyudmilla looked at me and burst into tears.

She told me about her daughter. All the money Lyudmilla and her husband made from selling vegetables went towards her daughter’s education at a music school. She'd recently met a foreign man and became pregnant. The man abandoned her and left Ukraine. Lyudmilla was devastated as her daughter could lose her position at school, her goals harder to achieve now in a state that provides little welfare.

My heart broke for Lyudmilla, standing at her table in the busy, cold market, her kerchief-covered head shaking with every sob. As I offered my poorly constructed condolences in Russian, I rebuked myself for never previously offering kindness to Lyudmilla in return for hers.

Lyudmilla's story epitomised that of Ukraine: concurrently a story of survival and defeat. I often wonder if her nation's current troubles have etched lines on her face; put grey in her hair.

After recent setbacks and defeats in the fledgling nation, I hope she'll survive.